


Something Wicked, Something Holy

by maximumtrash



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, Consensual Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Heavy Angst, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Mutual Pining, Sexual Tension, Soulmates, Touch-Starved, Unhealthy Relationships, dream is half-god... or is he half-dreamon?, seriously he's got shadow wings idk, these are their SMP characters, yeah they're gonna do it in the prison
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:07:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29648295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maximumtrash/pseuds/maximumtrash
Summary: George visits Dream in prison twice.The first time, he walks out alone. The second, they leave together hand in hand.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 145





	Something Wicked, Something Holy

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was in my drafts, and I just decided to throw it out here. If you happen to come across this, for the love of all that is sacred, don't mention it to any CCs.
> 
> Also, this may be potentially triggering to some because of the nature of Dream's character. But everything that ends up happening in chapter 2 is entirely consensual.

“The lava will stop soon. Be patient, please.” 

The air around him blisters, nearly boiling when he breathes. Sam stands to his left, hovering at his shoulder. Part of George wants to tell him to step back, but he knows there’s no point. 

There’s no trust between them anymore. 

George watches the lava writhe. 

“He’s different, you know,” Sam says, monotone. George can detect the forced authority in his voice. He wipes his sweaty palms on his pants and stays quiet. “If he tries anything—”

“I signed the contracts,” George says. “I understand.” He’d been through the procedures. He’d followed the rules to get here. It was weighing on him, now. Especially the mining fatigue. 

“I don’t think you do,” says Sam. 

Silence. From the opening before them, the lava begins to inch down. A new wave of anxiety spreads beneath his skin just as Sam continues, quieter, as if not to be overheard. “You’ve been away. He’s something else now. Even in here, he’s dangerous.”

“Not to me,” George says, and he pushes his glasses up into his increasingly dampening hair. The lava drains further. He knew who would be across it, in that pillar of obsidian that creeps into view. He thought he’d been prepared. 

But what he saw was barely anything at all. A glimpse of iron in the corner of that far-off cell, possibly a chest, maybe a picture on the wall. No sign of the familiar drab yellow that he understood to be lime green. 

He expected Dream to be waiting for him, like he had been for Sapnap. Like he had been for Bad. At least, that’s how they’d described it to George. 

Sam slinks over to a spot near the wall, out of sight.

“I’ll send you across now. Face forward, and walk with the platform as it moves or you’ll fall and burn to death.”

_Right_ , George thinks, and he crosses his arms. The stone below him rumbles then lurches forward, jerking across the flooded room. Too fast, he steps onto smooth obsidian, and the gate in front of him drops.

Behind him, Sam says something about calling for him when he’s ready to leave. George barely has the mental capacity to confirm, because Dream is right there, at the far wall.

Chained to the floor on his knees, arms behind his back, staring up at him without a mask.

He’s in nothing but a ratty jumpsuit that’s an indistinguishable mud color to George’s eyes, sleeves tied at his waist. His hair, longer than it usually is, sticks to his temples and curls at the nape of his neck. At first, George doesn’t know if he’s breathing, because his chest doesn’t appear to rise or fall. Dream just _looks_ at him, gaze boring into his own. 

He seems like a predator, unhinged and waiting for George to move. 

George presses his arms tighter across his chest. The cell smells like earth and fire. Ash and clean sweat. Chains clink as Dream shifts.

“You took a long time,” says Dream. Even his voice sounds off—not quite himself. Or maybe it’s just been too long since he’s heard it. 

The only thing George can manage in response is, “You’re tied up.” 

Dream rolls his scarred shoulders. George follows the movement, taking in where the chains attach to the wall.

“Yeah.” Dreams mouth splits, revealing creamy white teeth, sharp canines. “Burned my clock too many times. Sam got annoyed.” 

“Oh.”

George takes in the cell—the cauldron, the lectern, the empty item frame labeled “DO NOT BURN.” He glances back at Dream, meeting his stare. The air between them feels swollen. It’s not awkward—it’s just not right. The past hangs just above their heads, settling itself into two loose loops. A noose for each of them.

Not for the first time, George wonders if coming here was the wrong choice. 

“It’s nice. You being here.” Dream swallows audibly. “Nice of you to visit.”

Even now, after all this time, it’s as if Dream can read his mind. Suddenly, fury flares in him. George tenses. There’s so much he wants to say, but it doesn’t come out, which only frustrates him further. It’s not like him to be speechless. He’s loud and unabashed—doesn’t worry about how he looks or what he says. Instead, he’s at a loss for words. And he hates it.

“Yes, it was nice of me,” he bites.

George watches Dream’s expression flash with excitement, then grow eager. His eyes darken, and his eerie smile slips into something more devious.

“What, you didn’t miss me?”

_Of course I missed you_ , George almost says. He thinks better of it, chews words around in his mouth before he gathers the nerve to spit them out. “That’s not what I said.”

Dream chuckles. It’s a dark sound, low and full of intent. “So you did miss me.” He drags his gaze over him. It’s intense, licking at the exposed skin of George’s arms, sticking at his neck. “Don’t worry,” he whispers, “I won’t tell anyone.”

George’s breath catches in his throat. The Dream he knew would never act the way he was right now. The Dream he knew was always cautious with his words, shy with his stares. Never so arrogant in his posture. Never so playful with his tone. 

It dawns on him, ice freezing up his spine, that Sam was right. Dream _is_ different now. He looks the same, George considers. All lithe muscle, toned chest, broad shoulders. Thick brows over hooded eyes. That nasty scar tugging at the top of his lip, slicing up over his eyelid to his hairline. But there’s something about his presence that isn’t quite normal. 

Almost inhuman. 

_He’s a monster_ , Tommy had said to George earlier that day.

George steadies himself, trying to ignore the pounding of his heart, and the feeling pulsing behind his ribs that reminds him too much of the first stages of mourning. He steps closer, towering over Dream, and reaches for that anger again. Anger is easier. More productive. 

“I came here because I wanted to _see_ ,” George says. The culprit of the destruction outside this ghastly prison. The one the citizens have begun to consider half-god, half-villain. A most dangerous combination. “I wanted to ask _why_.” 

_How could you have been the one to do this?_

My Dream, his blood beats in his veins. Not my Dream.

“Why what?” Dream coaxes, an edge to his voice.

“Why,” George says. A statement. Dream would answer him, because George demands it. Dream always came when he called, bent to George’s will. He would now, too. George wouldn’t accept anything less.

He sees it, an internal war in Dream’s gaze, even behind the chilling unfamiliarity of his smirk. Dream was not used to taking a knee to anyone, not anymore. 

Still, after a tense silence, Dream tilts his head. “I just wanted to protect everyone.” And then, after a beat: “Protect _you_. You were gone.” He leans forward, so close to George’s waist, neck craning up. “You _left me_ ,” he says.

George wasn’t ready for that. It fractures a bit of his will. He shifts his weight between his feet without grace, but stands his ground. “I didn’t leave you. I was just…” It doesn’t make sense, and he knows it. “Sleeping,” he finishes. 

Dream _laughs._ George does step back then, out of his space, watching him cackle without wheezing, pulling his chains taught over and over. 

He stops, face falling suddenly. “Well, that makes it okay, then. Pretty little George, just taking a nap.”

“I don’t know how to explain.” It comes out like it pains him. And it does, he realizes.

Dream makes a noise of agreement. “You don’t have to, I guess. I can just let you get away with it like I always do.”

Ah. It stings—Dream meant for it to. This special thing they have with each other, always letting one another off the hook, forgiving without consequences, acknowledging each other’s faults the way they do with no one else. They had that together. Dream and George, always them, far out of reach from others. A dance they locked themselves in years ago. It seems ancient, now. A past life. Something immortal.

Dream spat it at him because he’s hurt. All the bad he’s done, the evil he’s fostered in the land they settled together, and he’s upset at George. 

Always whining at him, George thinks. 

“And you want me to do the same for you, forgive what you’ve done in my absence?” George says, all sugary and sweet. He pushes his bottom lip into a pout. “Did I not pay you enough attention?”

Only for a second, Dream’s face sours, but then his metaphorical mask is back in place. Distantly, George notes it’s strange to see him wear one that isn’t physically there, white and smooth to the touch. 

“Exactly. You didn’t,” Dream drawls, leaning back on his ankles toward the lacquered wall. “Now look at all the damage I’ve done.”

“To protect everyone, apparently.”

“Yes, to protect everyone.” Dream huffs, glancing around the room, gaze landing on the empty item frame. “Why doesn’t anyone understand that?”

His question appears to be genuine. So, George gives him an answer. “Because it doesn’t seem that way,” he says.

His stare returns to George, hotter than the lava at his back. Eyes blazing, Dream says, “I mean, to be fair, that’s how it started.”

“And how did it end?”

The air shifts almost tangibly. Dream’s answer, when it reaches George, feels like it slips inside him to his very marrow. It’s as if he’s said it with many mouths, tongues lashing into one chilling, layered echo.

“ _Chaos_.”

It’s there again. That animalistic note in his character. A glitch in his code. When George woke up and returned to the land, he found it bruised with melancholy, its people tainted by terror. 

_“Something’s not right with him,”_ Sapnap had said. _“If something happens and he gets out_ _—_ _”_ The shine left his best friend’s eyes. _“I’ll put him down myself._ ”

Other reports were of a similar variety.

But George does not fear him. Or whatever he’s becoming. Right now, his figure blocks the light of the lava from reaching where Dream is, but he’s still lit softly by glowstone. There’s something strange about the wall behind Dream. George almost can’t make it out because of the nature of the obsidian, and the colors being so muddled to him already. But, no, he squints, and— 

There.

He can see Dream’s wreckage, this man who is not quite a man anymore. When they were younger, George thought he had the heart of an angel. The spirit of a hero. That one day, he’d end up with wings. Bent around him now, inky and writhing in his dull shadow are phantom limbs. Not quite there, not quite not there, either. A hideous seraphim, sick with glory. 

George thinks he understands where their terror had come from. He hadn’t witnessed the crimes Dream committed, or heard his corrupt words, but George sees the way he was tainted, even if his physical form didn’t show it, yet. Everything about him right now has George’s instincts screaming, _Danger_. What chokes him, though, is the anguish that crawls up his throat.

“Yes,” George says. He uncrosses his arms, lets them hang limp at his sides. “You’ve caused a big mess.” It’s more a murmur than anything else. That strange sensation vanishes from the air.

“Mmm. Have to have fun somehow,” Dream says in a normal, unbothered tone. He sounds human again, at least. “Playing babysitter for everyone got boring. Everyone started turning on me, calling me a tyrant.” He shrugs. “I started _playing_ at being friends with others, because others were only pretending to be friends with me. Eventually, though, I got tired of the façade.” George watches his face morph into one of careful sincerity, posture shifting toward him. “But you know I’d never put on an act for you, George.”

It’s not an empty statement, but not a true one, either. It raises alarm bells in George’s mind. Furrowing his brows, George says, “I don’t know that anymore, actually.”

“Never would, never will.” And George… George can’t tell if that’s a lie or not. He goes along with it anyway.

“Am I not worth the game?” he says with an upward twitch of his lips. Then, more daring, “Don’t want to play with your food when the food’s me?”

Immediately, he recognizes his mistake. 

Dream does, too. He latches onto it by his teeth. “You’re different from the rest. To me. Always,” he says, earnest. “Is that what you wanted to hear? I don’t need to pretend. You know me better than anyone else. You’d even know me in death. Why paint you a false narrative?” He dips his head slightly. “We’re just as comfortable like this.”

George would disagree—comfortable isn’t the word—but Dream keeps going, “I’m just waiting to get out of here.”

“You think you’re going to escape?” He feels himself say the words more than choses to say them. Dream’s scarred brow quirks up. 

“Of course I am,” Dream says, voice levelling out in a way that’s nearly hypnotic. “I knew this would happen in the first place. _Come on_. Punz? You think he’s really against me? I told him to betray me.” George sucks in a breath. Dream grins. “And he did just that. This cell? I had it built. I got myself put in here, I’ll admit, but I can get myself out as well. Pandora’s Vault can’t hold me forever.”

George doesn’t doubt it, and that’s probably not a good thing. Dream’s words make him nervous, which hasn’t happened many times before. A miniscule, traitorous part of him wants to tell Dream to keep quiet so he won’t be overheard and get in trouble. That’s just his heart talking, so he stamps it down, but he can’t stop his gaze from flitting across the cell.

“Sam can’t hear us,” says Dream. Again with the mind reading. George twists briefly to look at the sliding wall of lava. “Or see us.”

It doesn’t make him feel better. Then he thinks, is it the criminal he’s more worried about, or his friends? Just because they are what they are to each other doesn’t mean he should be looking out for him.

His next words come out weak. “But he’s right over there.”

“Too far away,” Dream says, rushed. “He only has eyes on me from vantage points up near the ceiling, and even then, the cell is only visible when the lava levels are low.” A new kind of smile spreads on Dream’s face. It’s manic. Mangles his features into something unrecognizable. “There’s a river between us. You have to wait for him to let you out.”

_Obviously_. Still, the thought sobers him up. Dream is right. Sam can’t get in here immediately, and George can’t escape.

They’re alone.

“Are you just now realizing?”

“No.” _Yes_.

His grin stretches. “Did you time how long it takes to drain the room? Take the bridge over?” There’s a pause. George didn’t. Dream blows out a humorless laugh. “Too long.” Dream rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck. The air thickens.

Hushed, like it’s a secret to be shared between children, Dream says, “I could kill you in a blink, Georgie.”

He knows. Dream could do whatever he wanted right now if he chose. It’s in his posture—in the dark that blots his presence. When it comes to what he’s capable of, Dream doesn’t bluff.

George swallows. “I bet.” Dream’s gaze falls to his mouth, drags down his body, and George’s pulse spikes. “You wouldn’t, though.” Not ever. They could say all they wanted, bicker and tease, but there was nothing stronger than George and Dream together.

“But I could.” He says it like a caress. An agreement. An invitation. It uproots George, and he finds himself struggling to meet Dream’s eyes, the primal glint in them. “I kind of like this, you know,” he continues. “We’re all alone in here. I’m chained up. You could take advantage of me.”

Disgust rolls through George. He grits his teeth. “That’s not funny.” Dream laughs again, pulling on his shackles. George knows he’s just being a dick.

“Or… We could pretend this is like old times. I don’t have to be in chains.” He shakes them, as if to make a point. “I could _touch you_.”

The way he says it sends an unwanted shiver down George’s spine. “That’s a horrible idea.”

“I don’t think so.” He shakes his head. The breath he sucks in sounds painful, desperate. All of a sudden, his demeanor completely shifts. As if he drops his new mask, and the Dream George once knew comes to the surface. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. So long since… I miss— I want—” genuine frustration flickers over him. For the briefest moment, George thinks of reaching for him. _This_ was familiar. So smooth one second, fumbling for words when it was just them two, together.

_Dream_. 

Beneath an ocean of yearning, apprehension simmers in George. Dream bends over, head nearly to the floor, like a distorted way of stretching, and exhales a deep breath. George can see scars where his back is on display, ones he’s familiar with and ones he isn’t. There are different markings as well. Black slashes between his shoulder blades, red cuts hatching his skin. He aches to get a closer look, to soothe how painful those seem.

_How did this happen to you?_

Dream straightens up. That feral stillness returns.

There’s a loud screech, then a _crack_.

The chains clatter to the floor. _Shit._

Dream stands. George pales, jerking himself back toward the gate.

“Told you,” says Dream, low and sweet. George takes a steadying breath. With Dream on his knees, he could play into the illusion that he held the power. 

He should call for Sam. But, he says with practiced calm, “I didn’t doubt you about the chains, idiot.”

Dream considers him. George knows that look. He’s melted under it before. Alarm shoots through him. He barely has the chance to get out, “Dream, don’t—” before he moves.

Dream eats the distance between them in three strides, backing George up to the blistering wall of lava behind him. All at once, George is hit with the sheer physicality of him, the way Dream’s frame dwarfs his own. Simultaneously, he wants to shrink in on himself and press up against the bare torso in front of him. Get away from the enticing musky scent of Dream’s body yet also bury his nose into his neck. 

He _can’t_. He can’t do anything. He just holds his breath and tries focusing on the uncomfortable way his shirt is plastered to his skin.

He should call for Sam.

Familiar fingertips brush the underside of his chin, tilt his face up. George reaches to circle his hand around Dream’s wrist, wrenching away his touch. He cranes his neck the rest of the way to meet his eyes, and glares.

Dream smirks. “That’s the George I know. Always so defiant.”

“You need to step back,” George says with fury.

“No, I don’t.”

George tosses his wrist away, side-stepping his body, but a forearm snakes around his waist, pulling him back against hard muscle and hot skin. He gasps.

“Dream,” he hisses, digging his nails into the scarred arm locked at his belly. “I’ll call Sam.”

“If you were going to, you would have already,” Dream says, satisfaction laced in his tone, and he dips his head next to George’s ear. “This remind you of anything?”

The words tingle over George’s sensitive skin. He resists the urge to drop his head back onto Dream’s chest. He’s overheating, and he blinks through the haze of how good it feels to be held. 

_How long have they been apart?_

“No,” he says, quiet. Dream hums. 

“You don’t remember?” His free hand comes up to brush against George’s collar. “It was snowing. We’d been enchanting all day. I lit the fire…” Images flash in George’s mind: a scarlet sunset, skin on skin, being on his bruised knees by the hearth with Dream rutting into him from behind. “We made love until we passed out on the rug.”

George ignores the warmth stirring in his gut. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

He can _feel_ the way Dream smiles. " _Sure_. I mean, we could recreate that night right now, if you want.” George scoffs, but then Dream’s lips press a kiss to the back of his ear, and his eyes flutter shut. “We’d be all warm by the lava.” Another kiss. “I’d open you up nice and slow.” 

He has to fight not to crumble under his touch. “Stop it,” George whispers. He pushes weakly at the arm barring his body.

Dream’s hand drifts across his throat. “Stuff you full and leave you satisfied.”

He wants that, wants it _so_ much. “Stop—”

“You have to say please.”

His stomach drops, nausea wriggling in, and his muscles coil. His surroundings come back into focus. In one breath, he slides his foot back behind Dream’s ankle, breaks his hold, and takes all of Dream’s weight over his hip, catching him by surprise and flipping him onto his back. He hits the obsidian in front of George like a slab of meat, breath whooshing out of him, and he stares up at him with wide eyes, gasping.

“I said _stop_.”

Dream’s on his feet instantly, shoulders hunched and a frown tugging at his wet mouth. 

“M’sorry,” he says. “Sorry. I just—”

“It’s fine.”

He takes a step forward, and George takes one back. “No, I—” 

“Drop it, Dream.” 

History swings between them. 

“I miss you so fucking much,” Dream whispers, threading his hands into his hair. Something aches inside him. He wishes he felt nothing. That Dream wasn’t in here. That he didn’t seem so alien and familiar at the same time. George watches Dream’s chest heave. “Please, can I just— just hold you, or— I don’t—”

The worst thing is, George hesitates. After all that he’s seen since he’s been in here, he doesn’t know if this is just an act, another swing of Dream’s mood. It’s all like fucking whiplash, one thing after another, and George is dizzy with it.

“ _Please_.”

That gets George to flinch. He doesn’t know what to think. This boy, who’s been through everything with him, who’s caused so much hurt, who’s turned into something other than a man. George supposes he isn’t quite human himself anymore, though. Not with the way the forest calls to him. Not with the great bouts of sleep that takes away his days.

In the quiet that surrounds them, George settles on this: Dream deserves to be in here.

But they _all_ deserve a lot of things. 

George sighs, and opens his arms to the one Tommy calls a monster. Dream all but launches into his space.

This embrace is different from just a minute ago. This one is thick with a different kind of longing. Dream’s large hands flatten against George’s back, sliding up his spine.

George wraps his arms around his neck and tucks his head beneath Dream’s chin.

They breathe each other in. 

Before tonight, George still would have said this man was his. Just his. There were no words for what they had. With Dream, it’s always been simple. Dream was his most beloved. Two in one. Souls that would know each other when the sun burned out—by the feel of each other's breaths or the sound of each other’s footsteps.

Now, he’s unsure of where they stand. But he squeezes Dream tight and leans into the hands that run over his sides to small of his back, and out of Dream’s lips tumbles, “I’m sorry,” over and over. George doesn’t ask what for. He listens to his voice crack, feels the way his shoulders tremble. Until, “I didn’t want to do it.”

“Yes, you did,” George says into his skin. “You just didn’t want it to end up like this.”

Dream presses his cheek into George’s hair. “I wanted us all to be united,” he says, soft. “ _They_ chose to split us up, when all I wanted was to make us a family. But you’re on my side, right?” There’s no manipulative undertone, the way he says any of it. George understands what he means—that all that evil he committed was for the greater good. That it’d be better if everything had just gone his way. Maybe it would be; Dream isn’t a villain, not in his core. That’s one thing George is sure of. 

But, sometimes the most wicked things are done by men who simply believe they are in the right.

George tilts his face up to Dream’s throat and breathes him in.

_Salt. Fresh streams in the forest. Fresh dew on blades of grass warmed by the dawn._

He says, “I’d have followed you anywhere. War or no war.” He unwraps himself, slides his palms down Dream’s arms, tugging them from around his waist and pulling away. “But you’ve buried yourself alive.” Their gazes meet, and George is surprised to find heartbreak in Dream’s eyes. 

“Are you leaving? I don’t want you to. Please, stay.”

It’s too much. Sorrow rips at his lungs, and he almost can’t swallow past it. He needs to leave, now. His hand aches for his axe. He wants to settle his glasses on the bridge of his nose, go back to Kinoko and breathe. 

When he calls for Sam, Dream reaches for him again, but he steps away. It crushes him to do it, and Dream takes his arm back as if stung. George forces his legs to carry him to the water in the corner of the cell, boots clacking on obsidian.

They let silence bloom.

Only when Sam confirms his location, tells him to prepare to leave, does Dream’s voice break it. 

“Will you at least come back?”

George stares at him. The murky, horrifying shadow he casts is stronger, almost a silhouette now, with lava drenching him in light. He wonders, momentarily, if those wings ever manifested and became touchable, would he be more god than human? Or is he part demon beneath his skin? George decides it doesn’t really matter.

“I can’t love you like this. In the dark.” It’s not an answer. They both know it. Dream’s brows furrow.

“So help me see the light again,” Dream says. “Ranboo might help.”

_Ranboo? The kid?_

There’s the sharp sound of glass breaking and George blinks.

He’s out of the cell, standing next to Sam. It takes him a moment before he can tear his eyes from the wall of lava and make out the words Sam spews at him from his side.

“Did he say anything to you? Do anything?” George’s head shakes of its own volition. “ _Nothing_? He didn’t try to give you anything? Wasn’t suspicious at all?”

“Not really, no,” his mouth says for him. Sam’s face falls. George stares at the shifting grays of Sam’s enchanted netherite, heart beating in his ears, and does anything but think of the fact that he _should_ tell Sam all that Dream said. That he’s escaping, that Punz isn’t really on anyone’s side but Dream’s, that Dream just mentioned Ranboo.

But they make their way out of the prison, and he says nothing at all.

And when he’s back at the library in Kinoko, he walks right past Sapnap’s questioning gaze, finds his way into his bed, and promptly falls asleep.

He dreams of cozy fires and large, warm hands. Dirty blond hair and ceramic masks, swords and forests and miles upon miles of land. All the while, his most beloved stands by his side.

When he wakes, his only thoughts are that he can blame Dream for what he did, but he can also understand him. 

And if it were for Dream, it didn’t matter what stood in George’s path—he’d kill his way to Heaven if he had to.

Regret could come later.


End file.
